


Campari and Gin

by moz17



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Eventual relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:55:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Joan and Monica. (A first sighting, an attraction, but nothing happens. Yet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordbyronsbloomers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbyronsbloomers/gifts), [lategoodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/gifts).



She was tired out by this. Repressing a sigh, she shifted position gently, raising her hand to her hair and smoothing it down. Joan hadn't realised how bloody difficult, nay, let's push the boat out here, how exasperating it would be attempting to have a conversation with Morse. Perhaps they should just stick to the banter, they were good at that. She liked it too, found the batting back and forth of words exciting. 

This however, wasn't particularly exciting. All around them there was yelling and groans about football, drinks being spilled. The boy (for to her, he seemed but a boy) beside her made more eye contact with his pint than with her. Inwardly she rolled her eyes. Oh, Morse. You don't make things easy for yourself. 

She had first become interested in him because he was so different. Well, Peter was different too but not like Morse was. Morse really had no clue that he was unusual in any way, shape or form, whereas poor Peter perceived himself as marked out in some way and constantly fought to cover it over and win whatever it was he thought he needed to win at.  
It all seemed so exhausting to her. Jim looked like more fun, at least he'd take her dancing and she'd be able to eat a packet of chips in front of him afterwards without worrying. Maybe she should've gone for him instead. But it wasn't right either, it was only a slightly better option. 

Suddenly Morse stood up and Joan followed the direction he was gawping in. She knew that the woman wasn't looking at her, but rather at Morse, however she felt she should be looking at her instead of him. Now, there was someone she could dance with, she'd move like fire, soundtracked by the new Stones album. If she would smile, Joan could only imagine how her fine eyes would be even more powerful, eyes as fine as Lizzie Bennett's. Those eyes were eyes made of mischief, made of long conversations and considered questions, eyes to wake up to. 

This time Joan allowed herself a sigh, not caring whether Morse heard her or not. The other girl left the pub. Joan thought Morse would follow. Actually she was more offended that he didn't go after her. She wanted to in his place. Christ, she was more of a gentleman than he was. 

She had to find out her name. She'd ask Morse under some pretext of giving him advice. He'd never imagine that she'd ask for any other reason. She sat back, thinking of the flowers she'd get for her, deep orange tulips, and how she'd turn up at her door and give her the flowers she deserved. If she was lucky enough, those blooms might make the other girl smile.


	2. Paper.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In life if you wanted something, Joan had learnt, it was best to do it yourself."

She stood up at the bar, alone, a gin and tonic beside her. It went largely unnoticed for her attention was on those who entered and left the pub. In life if you wanted something, Joan had learnt it was best to do it yourself. Morse had proved elusive and not particularly useful concerning the information she sought. So, she returned to the pub that Saturday, hoping that fortune might favour her. 

Someone moved to stand beside her and ordered a drink, Campari and gin. Joan knew, she just knew it was her mystery girl. And now that the moment was here she was unsure as to how it would go. 

"Morse not here with you?" She asked Joan. There was no trace of cattiness in her voice. This was not an attempt at reproach or at marking her territory. 

Joan shook her head, meeting the girl's dark eyes. "No. One drink was enough."

The other girl arched her eyebrow and allowed her mouth to curve just a bit. "Well, an almost dinner was enough for me."

"I think it's just the way he is. It's not anything to do with you or me."

She looked interested, so Joan continued. "With people, well, no, not people, but romantic affairs, they're almost like a sheet of paper for him. One mistake on the page and he crumples it up, throws it away, and pulls out another blank sheet."

"Comparing me to a scrunched up piece of paper tossed into the bin. You know how to make a girl feel special." 

"I said the same thing about myself, didn't I?" She paused for a beat and watched as her companion nipped at her ruby red drink. 

"I'm Joan, by the way." She offered, leaning her crossed arms on the bar, angling slightly towards her. 

"Monica." 

Joan nodded and held up her glass. "How about we have a drink to something?" 

"Alright. What then?" 

Joan considered for a moment before saying. "To having more stories in us than a crumpled up piece of paper." 

"I like the sound of that." Monica flicked her gaze over Joan breifly as they both drank, yet this was not lost on Joan and she quite happily returned it. 

"How about we drink to absent friends?" Monica laughed softly. 

"You know what? I'd rather drink to new friends."


	3. The Gateways

Joan sat in front of her mirror as she did on so many Saturday evenings. Yet tonight she found it difficult to settle to the task at hand, making up her face. She was continually distracted by her LP player and changing the record, searching for just the right song to complement her mood. She however didn't really know what to call the mood she was in- she was looking forward to tonight but she would hesitate to call herself excited, or even hopeful and expectant. 

Usually she took a great delight in preparing herself for a big night out. She was quite proud of her wardrobe and other accessories; she was especially proud of them because she paid for them with her own money. Some of the other girls complained about working in a bank but she never would, she enjoyed what her work gave to her too much to ever moan, even just to joke along with the others. She didn't love the work though there was something satisfying about it, helping the customers sort out their accounts and pay slips, and checking their money by counting it out for them. She liked working with numbers, always had and had found maths easy in school. But what could you do with maths? She wished sometimes she'd argued that point more when it came to leaving school. She'd done exceptionally well in her maths and science A-levels (not so well in French). Her teacher, Ms. Keogh, had suggested Joan look into applying to colleges and she had taken the forms and brochures home to her parents. She was intrigued by the concept of college; you had to be almost, living in Oxford. Her parents had been so proud of her school results but college was something different. They hadn't said no exactly, they were too smart to refuse Joan something. Instead they appealed to her sense of logic- the cost of college, the uncertainty of what it would bring, wouldn't she rather get a job instead, even something to do with numbers? Joan had agreed and she didn't regret her choice now but sometimes she wondered what it would be like, gaining a degree, going into a world entirely strange to her, and to her parents. Still, she liked getting ready for work in the morning, and she liked putting away money in a savings account each week. She spent money easily, whether that meant getting the gorgeous pink "In a Spin" Revlon lipstick, a new outfit from Biba or being able to get the girls from work some gins on a Friday night. She wondered if how she felt was similar to her dad when he came home at the end of a long work day and hung up his hat. She saw her mum as her friend but her dad, sometimes she saw him, not as competition, but nevertheless, someone she wanted to match and equal in life. 

You'd have to go to college for years if you wanted to be a nurse, wouldn't you? Or at least, you'd have to do some intensive training of some type. Imagine being able to select the medicine to administer to someone, or knowing how to fix a broken limb, or being able to understand the barked short hand orders of a doctor. It was almost thrilling. 

She put on her new Shirelles record and sat down in front of the mirror again. She wasn't usually like this, she never dithered in such a way. She would never waste time like this, daydreaming, in reverie.  
Joan knew what to wear if she wanted to intrigue a man. She disliked the miniskirts she saw so many girls wriggling into. She preferred unusually cut dresses in bold colours or a pair of trousers. She often wished she could wear trousers to work instead of the skirt and blouse combination she had to settle for.  
But tonight she wanted to catch the eye of someone else and she wasn't quite sure how to do it.  
Finally, she pulled on her jeans (she'd had to save up weeks for those) and a floaty orange top. She left her hair down, slicked on some very pink lipstick and grabbing her handbag she left the house, shouting out her goodbyes to mum as she went. 

Joan tried to focus on her gin, on anything else really other than the woman across from her. Her dress was emerald green and her eyes were touched by electric blue eye shadow. With her glass of red Campari, Joan had the impression Monica was covered in jewels or parrot feathers. Joan realised Monica had noticed her staring and was quietly looking back at her, waiting for Joan to notice. Joan cast around for anything to say, to break this too strong contact. 

"Can I try your Campari?" 

"Of course." She held the glass out for Joan to take. She took it between both her hands, holding the glass with her fingertips, her thumbs supporting it from behind. She bent her head to the liquid, as a bird would dip their beak or a worshiper would at the chalice. The drink was sharp yet sweet, oranges mixed with bitter herbs. She didn't dislike it, yet it was jarring in some way. It was the drink of choice of someone who had had time to try out many forms and combinations of alcohol before deciding yes, this was the one for her palette. She handed the drink back to Monica. 

"What do you think?" she asked. 

"Different. But I like it." She was smiling slightly as she said this and Monica smiled back, her smile asking her to please share the joke. 

"Oh, it's nothing funny. I was only thinking how it's quite interesting what people's choice of drink says about them." 

Monica nodded in agreement. "Most of the doctors in hospital have a bottle of whiskey hidden in a desk drawer. Tells you enough about their job." 

The two of them avoided mentioning their mutual acquaintance with an over-fondness for whiskey. 

"My mum will sort of sip at a brandy at the end of the day, it's her little treat to herself. She's done all the house-work and she's finished for the day, so she gets comfy on the couch with her little glass. Dad, he drinks pints of ale and he genuinely looks as if he does it out of thirst, he sinks into them and he looks genuinely refreshed afterwards."

"What about me?" Monica asked. "Does my drink say anything about me?" There was a playful note in her voice and so instead of responding with the genuine thoughts she'd had on the subject, she responded with- "I don't know actually. I'll need more time." 

"Oh, I like that. Don't want to be too easy for you." 

They ordered another round, Monica paying for it, dismissing Joan by saying, "You can get the next one in."

Joan felt wonderfully comfortable, ensconced in their corner, with no one wish or desire to move herself. She would happily stay until the pub closed. Monica told her stories about her work at the hospital, the patients, good and bad, upsetting or frustrating, the in-hospital politics amongst the doctors. Talk turned to night clubs and which ones they liked to frequent. 

"Do you go to London clubs at all?" Monica asked. 

"Sometimes, if I can get the ride." 

Monica paused. "You ever been to The Gateways?"

Joan shook her head. "I haven't even heard of it." 

"It's one of the places I like going to best. It's tiny, so you're all packed in together, a very quick way to make friends. They have live music and jazz pianists and bands play there. Most other clubs wouldn't have them." Both left unspoken that this was due to skin colour, but both were quite aware of what Monica had omitted to say. 

"Is it popular?" 

"Oh yes." Monica returned. "With the ladies. There's still a few men invited along but it is mostly girls only at The Gateways."

Monica drained the remaining half of her drink and put the empty glass down on the table. Joan clung onto her drink and instead of bringing it to her lips, she dipped two of her fingers into it and extracted an ice cube and crunched it between her teeth. 

"I think I'd like that. Could we...go there together sometime?" 

Oh hell, Joan was not used to being so jittery, she never got this way around blokes. 

"How about next weekend?" Monica asked lightly. 

Joan nodded, not able to say anything in response, whether it was due to a sudden shyness or being overwhelmed at so many new possibilities having just flowered open in front of her, she wasn't sure which. 

"How will we get to London?" she eventually recovered the thread of the conversation. 

"Easy. I have a little scooter. If you hop on the back and hold tight it should only take over an hour to get there."

"If I'm going to be sitting behind you, flying along the motorway to London, I better not wear a skirt." 

"Don't. Jeans suit you."

Joan stood up. "I think it's my round, isn't it? Same again?" Monica nodded. "Might try a Campari myself this time." Joan added as she walked over to the bar, smiling to herself and imagining Monica's gaze on her as she moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was indeed a lipstick by Revlon in the 60s called "In a Spin". My mum finished school in the 60s, did a science course and ended up working in Technical Drawing. She still talks fondly about how she bought that lipstick as it was the first ever lipstick she bought. I just wanted to have a little tribute for all the wonderful women of the 60s, like my mum, Joan and Monica, going out into the work force, single and educated.


	4. A Tree Taking Root

Joan was dancing around her bedroom, her curtains open, even wanting the neighbours across the road to be able to see in and envy her. Some days her bedroom was tiny, restrictive like a corset and she resented the unchanging view from her window. But tonight this did not matter for she knew she was going far beyond it.  
She tied her hair up with a vividly patterned scarf and skipped around her room to The Beatles, "I Saw Her Standing There". 

Christ, she loved dancing. She didn't know if she was any good at it but she couldn't care less. She spent her days sitting behind a desk at work and then in clubs she had to wait for men to ask her up for a set. She wished she could just spin around a room, limbs everywhere. Jeans made dancing much easier, and more satisfying too. Probably wouldn't be let into most clubs in Oxford dressed like this. This other place, The Gateways, that sounded different though. She had spent the past week fantasizing about this club, how it would look, the music, how she would look, what to order, what to say. Usually she squashed any such silly daydreaming, knowing it never did anyone any good. If you had to dream your life away, she reasoned, then there was something wrong in your life and you couldn't fix that by running away into an imaginary world. (Ah, that was the voice of her dad, wasn't it?) 

"Joan. JOAN." Sam's voice finally reached her. 

"What?" She lifted the needle off her record player. 

"There's a little bike parked outside the house. Is that a friend of yours?" 

"Oi," Joan yelled back down. "At least she can drive it!"

She heard Sam muttering indistinctly before closing the living room door again, disappearing into the world of the TV. Their mum and dad were out for the night, at her dad's insistence, with her mum smiling and feebly protesting. Joan cherished such moments, the pair of them as light-hearted as teenagers. She found herself at an age now where she could view her parents and their relationship with some objectivity but also with a great deal of affection. When she was in a particularly happy mood she'd call them the two Freds. Sam would roll his eyes at her whenever she did. She wouldn't respond, knowing that in time he'd also learn to see what she did- the quietness and the strength of their love. 

She pattered down the stairs quickly, taking a moment for herself, standing behind the door, her hand on the latch. She blew out through her lips and pulled the door open, clicking it smartly shut behind her. Dusk had settled and only a faint cast of the sun remained. Monica smiled when she saw Joan approaching. She nodded her head behind her. 

"Can I offer you a lift anywhere?" 

Her arms were straight out in front of her, her fingers curled around the handlebars, her left foot planted on the ground, her leg cocked out at an angle; she looked a goddess in that moment. 

Joan said nothing but smiled softly in return and went to get on the back of the scooter. The mechanics of this act suddenly defeated her and what should have been a smooth gesture turned into a struggle compounded by the awareness of Monica's slight amusement at her stumbling and somehow bumping her arse onto the seat. Oh Lord, she was glad for small mercies, one being that she was behind Monica and so the other woman couldn't see ridiculous colour her face had gone. Hold it together Thursday, she admonished herself. If you can cope with Mr. Thompson leering at you everyday and making disgusting comments, surely you can keep a somewhat normal face on you for this? 

"You should probably put your arms around me." Monica said, not even turning around. 

Joan slid nearer to Monica, achingly aware of how her legs were open, the insides of her knees unavoidably resting against the swell of the tops of Monica's thighs. She slipped her right arm around her waist, quickly followed by her left, and clasped them there, feeling the movement of her rib cage and stomach and experiencing a growing warmth in her palms through the other girl's trench coat. 

"You ready?" 

"Oh yes." 

The little engine stuttered into life before settling and speeding them through housing estates, to the open road and through villages. After her initial anxiety had passed, Joan found herself thrilled by the experience of riding on a scooter. It was utterly unlike being in a car. Instead of being transported though place she was a part of the landscape, unfiltered. The wind whipped her legs and she didn't flinch when cars passed them out.  
Monica drove smartly, nippily yet not recklessly, and Joan loosened her grip around her waist, more touching her sides than holding on. She thought about nothing in particular, the whir of the engine sound-tracking her mind as it butterflied from one fancy to another.

And then they were in London, each corner lit up as gaggles of men and women wended their way through the streets. Monica found a place to park her scooter, and Joan unfolded herself from her position, stretching her arms above her head, shaking her limbs. 

"You look like you're getting ready for a competition or a match of some sort." Monica said as they fell into step beside one another. 

"Maybe I am." She returned. 

She followed Monica as they moved through the evening crowds. Though she still had a good memory of how London was laid out she was unfamiliar with where Monica was taking her.  
They reached a low door in a brick wall and Monica went in, disappearing down the steps. At the bottom of the staircase they were already struggling to squeeze through as patrons milled about, greeting friends or bidding adieu to others. Monica tugged on Joan's sleeve. She turned, her face questioning and Monica asked for her coat. 

They footed their way slowly to the bar and Joan took in Monica's all black ensemble, black cropped trousers, a black V-neck sweater, clinging to her frame but not too much, just enough to give her ideas about the figure underneath.  
As they stood at the bar waiting for their drinks the room moved constantly, a rippling of people, wave-like, back and forth, around, dancing, smoking. Women regularly paused to say hello to Monica or call out a greeting to her, followed on each occasion by an appraising look directed at Joan. The first time it happened Joan was unprepared, yet as it continued to happen she found herself staring back at the other woman, and moving closer to Monica. The offender would look at her with wide, oh-little-ole'-me? eyes before registering Joan's movement and then their expression changed- "Oh-its-like-that-is-it?" 

"Do you come here a lot?" Joan asked, scarcely noticing the drink Monica pressed into her hand, she was too focused on scanning the room as more and more patrons went back and forth. 

"Yes." Monica nudged her with her hip and Joan snapped her head back to her. "Oi, I'm here you know." 

"Oh, I didn't mean, it was just-" Joan laughed at herself. "My apologies. I was being rude. Thanks for the drink." She lifted her glass, tipped it slightly towards Monica and drank deeply. She had come to recognise the sharp taste of Campari. This time however other notes previously unperceived came to the surface- grapefruit, and something else. 

"Is this...champagne?" 

"You should be so lucky. Prosecco and Campari." 

"Isn't that still ridiculously expensive?" 

"Yes. But it means you have to follow it up with an equally charming drink." 

Joan raised her eyebrows in an "Oh-really?" manner. 

"I want you to pick something for me." Monica continued. "Surprise me." 

Joan thought for a moment and made her order, biting her lips as she handed Monica her glass. She kept her eyes on her mouth as she sipped from it. 

"Gin...wine?" Monica sounded skeptical. 

"Campari and fizzy wine?" 

Monica shrugged. "I think though, we'll have to dance some of this off."

A band had been in full swing and were taking a five minute break. They were back on stage now, one woman standing at a piano, and four men, on piano, drums, double bass and brass. They tuned their instruments quickly in a dreadful cacophony, and following the woman's count, they launched into an undulating rhythm.  
The woman prowled across the cramped stage, clearly enjoying her own body, letting fly with a deep worldly voice. They left their empty glasses on the bar. Joan kept her arms at her sides, bereft of something to do now, hanging, waiting. Monica stood a little way off, already half on the dance floor. She held her hand out to Joan. The other girl took it instantly and went with her. 

Joan moved only at half capacity initially, her eyes darting everywhere, towards the stage, over the other couples, her own feet even.  
There was a short sharp tug on her arm. Monica taking a step closer to her, put one hand on her hip and started to move to the music. Joan looked into her eyes and waited for the other woman to break eye contact but she didn't. With her eyes connected to the only person in the room she was interested in Joan slipped into her more usual self; she could have been back in her own bedroom, dancing and wanting the world to see her move. 

It was just part of the music to step in to Monica and put her arms around her neck, swaying, her eyes half-closed, not needing to see anymore as it was all so clear. Monica shifted and wrapped her arms around Joan's waist, carefully resting her head against the other girl's. 

The setting was in many ways ideal; it was not a case of Joan distrusting her own instincts. She just didn't want to have anyone else party to the first moment she got to touch Monica's lips with her own. She did not have any desire to hide. Beyond what censures she knew were silently placed on her, and the slight worry on her parents' behalf, she would have freely indulged herself, and frequently. But this; this first- and when she considered what other potential firsts there were, she pressed herself more solidly into Monica and she reciprocated this- this first was something she wanted to have only between her and this woman, something she could conjure up at a future time without having to remember anyone else intruding on it. She wanted there to be only Monica and she wanted be the only one there for Monica in return.  
This resolve was difficult to stick to the more they danced, the more they drank, and especially trying was riding back home holding onto Monica, her body still lightly sheened with sweat. 

Joan slipped into bed and fell into a heavy sleep almost instantly. Her last thought was of Monica, the almost certainty she felt that this woman would be part of her life, a tree taking root, learning to bend and accept the winds and blustering that was herself.


	5. Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promise

"Walk you home?" Joan trilled to Monica as they left the pub. What was it about this girl that made her so utterly giddy? It was as if Monica intensified her, made her bolder, more expansive, made her...well, just gave her more, really. She dressed brighter, adorning herself in shimmering shades of yellow, orange and pink; her movements and gestures became more unrestrained, her laugh deeper and her words ever more flirtatious. 

"Thanking you kindly for protecting a mere damsel such as myself." Monica replied, amusement clear in her tone and her eyes. Joan stood at Monica's side, slightly in front of her, and extended her arm to her. Monica linked with her and they passed through the empty Oxford streets. Joan did get a thrill from being able to say to Monica the things her dates would normally voice as part of their role. Not that Joan had ever had much time for rigid roles, a characteristic which some men had found off-putting about her. They didn't want any of Joan's ideas about how the night should go upsetting their smooth, predictable script. There had been more than one occasion when she had initiated a proper snog instead of meekly submitting to the goodnight kiss and her date had backed away. She had a rather strong suspicion that Monica would not back away and the strength of this thought tingled deep inside her. God, it'd been a long time since she'd been this excited by the mere thought of a kiss, the anticipation. 

The reached Monica's building all too quickly; the two stood facing each other in the hallway, Monica making no move to go up to her flat and Joan making no move to leave. Monica smoothed her hand over her hair, then over her cheek before letting it come to rest on the neckline of her dress, her fingertips just touching her throat. Joan watched these movements, wanting to be Monica's fingers on Monica's body, wanting to be Monica's fingers on her body, wanting to be her own fingers on herself in front of Monica. Oh Christ, she wasn't sure how much more she could stand of this. 

Monica gazed at Joan, her eyes fiercely focused on the girl in front of her. " You don't know how badly I want to invite you in. But I've got the early shift tomorrow. I shouldn't have even been out with you tonight really."

"Probably a bad idea to let me know that I have the power to make you do things you shouldn't really be doing." 

"I wonder..." she replied in a low whisper, taking a step closer to Joan, before stopping once more. 

"When's your next day off?" Joan managed to ask. 

"Next week." Monica's breath skittered across her face. "Why? Are you asking yourself over to mine? Isn't that a bit presumptuous of you?" 

"Probably, but..." Unable to think of any witty, playful reply Joan did the only thing that was left to do and pressed her lips to Monica's. All was absolutely still for a long moment, then Monica parted Joan's lips, raised her hand to the back of Joan's head and pulled them tightly together. Joan pressed herself to the other girl's body, reveling in the delicious sensation of breast against breast, hip against hip. Monica trailed her hand down to the small of her back, all the time kissing her deeply, on and on. Joan broke away from her. "Invite me up anyway." She demanded breathlessly. 

"Oh, you have no idea how much I want to, Miss Thursday. But-" She placed her palm against Joan's chest and pushed lightly. "I just can't." Joan lent in to catch one last kiss but Monica evaded her. "No, if I kiss you again, my resolve may weaken." 

"Some first kiss." Joan quipped. Monica was already half-way up the stairs when she paused and turned to Joan. 

"Think of it as a promise."


End file.
